


Variations on a Theme

by tjs_whatnot



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7039018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night. Three separated lovers remember better times...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variations on a Theme

****

~Sotto Voce~

Peter bit his lip as he stroked himself. Like many nights while he pleasured himself, he thought of El, and of Neal. Now though, now that he’s in a cell of his own, now that Neal is out there somewhere and he, Peter Burke — upstanding citizen and officer of the law — rots behind bars, he tries very hard to not think of them, not sully El's memory, not think of Neal and the part he played, the part his father played in all of this. But as Peter bit his lip harder, feeling his orgasm building, he thought of Neal and what he had once told Peter about prison sex. _If you want to make sure the only person you’re fucking is yourself, you better never let anyone hear you enjoying it._

Of course, at the time, it hadn’t been advice, it had been an explanation. Then, he hadn’t been thrusting into his own hand, he had been rocking back and forth against Neal, feeling the muscles of Neal’s ass tighten around his cock. El, who was working _her_ hand along Neal’s shaft, had tried to coax Neal to express himself, she knew that Peter really liked sex noises, his and his partners. He liked to hear them shout, to sing.

But there in his solitary cell, he took Neal’s advice and bit his tongue. His mind flashed El, Neal, El, Neal dizzyingly as he increased his speed and tightened his grip. He could almost feel them, taste them, smell them in the air around him, the sweat on his brow, the deep gasps of his breath and the quiet, almost-too-quiet-to-hear-unless-your-ear-is-right-at-his-mouth moan that started low in the throat, until he finally, _finally_ allowed himself a strangled cry into his scratchy pillow.

****

~Pizzicato~

El went through the motions at home since Peter’s incarceration. At work, during the day, she could drown out the sorrow of his absence by keeping herself busy. At home, though, where every inch of it is filled with the memories, good and bad, she had a hard time pushing the grief aside. So, she adopted different routines to stave the onslaught. It wasn’t that she wanted to forget him, forget Neal (though, sometimes, the last few weeks, she did wish with every fiber of her being that they’d never met him, that he’d never been caught, never been released to Peter’s care, never wound up, inexplicably, in their bed). No, it was just that she needed to find a way to survive this (hopefully) brief separation.

So, she ate at the kitchen island instead of the dining room table, she showered in the morning before work, instead of at night so she could snuggle up with Peter clean and refreshed, or even more often, be joined in the shower for one of her favorite events, steamy, wet, upright sex. She slept on the other side of the bed. At first, just to help her mark the time between El the wife of Peter, the lover of Neal, and El the visitor to inmate 12119205 and estranged, yet oddly still pining, lover of Neal Caffrey. Now though, on Peter’s side of the bed, on a mattress that was long overdue for a flipping or replacing, she could feel the imprint of her husband, and lies inside of it, imagining him there, holding her tight in his arms, making her feel safe, loved.

It’s nights like these that she needed her imagination the most. Nights where the warm breeze came in from the opened windows and the sounds from the street sound like some of her favorite jazz riffs, stops and starts, cars that idle at the light, then hum, sirens that roar and then recess. Most nights she tried to close out the memories, but nights like this, she needed to hold onto them, find ways to capture them and make them real again. She needed to remember the time when Peter was her everything, remember the time when they, Peter and her, were the only family Neal needed.

As she unbuttoned the top of Peter’s favorite pajamas, the only clothes she’s wearing, she recounted and considered the ways in which Peter and Neal were different in bed. The general act of sex, the penetration of it, they were oddly similar. They both liked the same positions, both liked to mix it up in the same way, both really liked when she was on top. 

No, it was the other things that brought out their unique differences. The way they worked their mouths, what they did with their hands, their fingers. She closed her eyes and remembered their kisses, the way they worked their mouths down her body. Neal, always the connoisseur, took his time, tasted every morsel, savored every delectable. His kisses lingered, his devotion in the details. Peter devoured, consumed, hungered. He couldn’t get enough. 

She arched her back, feeling the sweat pool at her clavicle as she worked herself out of the shirt. She brought the fabric to her nose, hoping to smell Peter’s scent, but it was gone, all there was left was her and their fabric softener. She wiped the sweat off her with the shirt before tossing it away. Reaching for the remote to the ceiling fan, she turned it on. When the cooled air hit her warmed skin, it prickled, her nipples hardened. She brushed her fingers against their tips and cried out with the sensation.

With one hand on her breast, she thought of Neal, of his hands on her, how he treated her like a work of art, a sculpture that he had created with his own hands; his hands on her, awed by the masterpiece he had found under all that marble. 

With her other hand between her legs, she thought of Peter, of his hands on her, how he treated her like a musical instrument, plucking from her all sorts of noises. He wanted his fingers stroking and strumming to make her sing, and they did. Her climaxes with them there, playing her, with her, made her orgasms sound like ballads, love songs devoted to them, to all of them together. Like they should be always. 

That night, her alone, them there only in a faded sense memory, and she does what she can to mimic each of her lovers, but when she comes, it’s not the syncopation of heavy breathing and shared gasps, it’s not the love ballads filled with devotion and awe; instead, it is a blues ballad, a melancholy moan building slowly to a wail of woe and longing.

 

****

~Aria~

Neal lay reclined on the overly large lounge chair on his terrace. His hands behind his head, trying unsuccessfully to transport himself somewhere else in his mind. A lot had happened in the months since he had left the island paradise to come back to the paradise that was his place with the Burkes. He found, and lost again, a father he’d thought dead, he’d struggled with his devotion to Peter and El and his need for freedom and he’d come to the realization — too late — that there was nothing he wouldn’t do, wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t sacrifice for Peter, for El.

He remembered nights on the island, nights that were supposed to be a tropical oasis, and looking up to the stars, stars that he never got to witness in Manhattan, the lights too bright, dimming and extinguishing the night sky, and all he yearned for were the constellations to burn with the faces of Peter and El, bring them to him. 

He closed his eyes and tried to conjure those stars, those faces, the feel of the warm, salty breeze and the sound of crash of the waves. After a moment, he thought he had taken himself away to that place where he could be alone, just him and his memories, and his hand snaked down his body and beneath the elastic of his sweatpants, pulling at his tanktop.

He held on to the vision of Peter and El there dancing in the night sky as he wrapped his fingers loosely around his cock and felt his skin, needy and burning hot. The remembrance flickered and Neal realized with a sigh that the scene was too quiet, too serene. He needed noise, needed a small sense of chaos, of danger.

Peter Burke was many things, but quiet and serene was none of them, especially in bed. So Neal opened his eyes and replaced the stars with the haze of streetlights, traffic lights and store fronts, he replaced the salty ocean breeze with the rising heat and humidity that choked on the street, but there on the roof, above it all, enveloped and caressed as he took himself in his hand and began stroking. Finally, he replaced the crash of waves with the chaotic symphony of civilization all around him, the honking of cars, the whirl of helicopters propellers, the sirens and shouts of people living their loud, messy lives. 

With his lower lip between his teeth, and his grip on his cock tightening almost painfully, he conjured his lovers once again. Peter behind him, one hand on the small of Neal’s back, the other clutching at his hip, driving his cock in Neal’s tight hole, setting the pace. El sprawled before him, his cock buried inside her.

She’s all moans and pleas, Peter’s all grunts and demands. “Sing for me, Neal. Let me hear you.”

El agreed with her shimmering gaze and bright smile. 

Frantically he pumped his hips, trying to find the beat, the melody, until suddenly, the world around him again faded and it’s just him and he opened his mouth and exalted syllables and consonants, prayer and curse, operatic joy and tragedy until he’s hoarse and spent, shivering and shaking, until fantasy and reality merge and he’s nowhere and everywhere, until the past faded and left in its wake a dedication, a driving need to make it all right again, to get it all back again, no matter the cost.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the lovely Sherylyn.


End file.
